


fear of the water

by lupescx



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Kissing, Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Reunion, minor discussions of gender, past twelve/clara, references to gallifrey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29489361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupescx/pseuds/lupescx
Summary: Clara reunites with the Doctor, but after two weeks of traveling together there's still a distance between them. On a restless night aboard the TARDIS, she decides to go for a swim. The Doctor joins her.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	fear of the water

The hallways are dim as Clara walks through them, guided only by the soft humming of the TARDIS. Its winding, strange paths are different from the last time she boarded, but familiar in that she knows she won’t get lost. All animosity between them faded a long, long time ago. Now, she steps confidently and quietly, feeling rather like in the presence of an old friend.

Earlier, unable to sleep, she paced her room. Restless, dissatisfied, searching for something to put her mind to. Finally she realized there was no need for pretense. The night-cycle is only really here for her benefit, knowing that the Doctor rarely sleeps for all of it. Pretending to rest served neither of them. So, Clara slipped on a robe and wandered into the corridors.

She knows where she’s going. Or at least, she hopes the TARDIS is bringing her there. Sometimes she meddles. Mostly in good-nature. Her bedroom hasn’t been misplaced in a while, an improvement from when she first started traveling with the Doctor.

This time, she takes Clara exactly where she wants. Pushing open a set of glass doors, she steps into a large room bathed in blue light. Bookshelves line the walls, but it’s not the main library. Expansive and inviting, a pool takes up the majority of the space. Stepping closer, Clara lets the doors close behind her.

There’s a various, uncoordinated array of chairs and tables around the perimeter; ranging from Victorian dining seats to Art Deco daybeds to the most garish, ridiculous furniture she’s ever seen. Moving to the closest one, a relatively normal orange chaise lounge, Clara pulls off the robe and sets it down—still wearing a thin layer of nightclothes. The air is slightly chilled, and she shivers. It’s a nice cold, though. But the water better be warm. She projects this thought to the TARDIS, and the lights dim slightly before brightening again. Sweet.

Finally wading into the water, she’s gratified to find that the water _is_ warm. “Thanks,” she whispers, then descends the rest of the stairs. It only comes up to about her midriff, but the end of the pool is deeper. She walks until the water reaches her chest. It’s fine here for now. She might actually swim later, but just standing, breathing in the quiet atmosphere is enough contentment.

Breathing. Yeah, she’s used to that by now. For a long time, she hadn’t needed to. A very long time. Sure, sometimes she kept up pretense around others, but with a silent heart and a frozen time-stream, it wasn’t necessary.

Then she went back to Gallifrey, and everything changed. Her heartbeat restarted, the warmth came back to her fingertips, and breathing was no longer optional. The world destroyed, everyone dead, and answerless among the wreckage Clara lived once again.

That had been some years ago. Enough that she expected by now to look older, to shed the eternal youth she wore for a millennium. But nothing changed. No aging. Living, yes, but something in the Time Lord technology; technicalities that meant even now, a natural death has no threat.

At least, that’s what she assumed. The Doctor corroborated, and nothing contradicted the theory. That was... two weeks ago, now. When they found each other again. And the Doctor remembered her. They stored Clara’s TARDIS somewhere safe, and she’s been on board since.

She missed the Doctor. So, so much. Running into her after missing her for so long—it was an ecstatic, adrenaline-filled moment, and she barely had time to process it before the Doctor had grabbed her hand and pulled them away from the aliens chasing them.

Being back is incredible. She forgot how much she loved traveling with the Doctor. Going on adventures, narrowly escaping danger, but mostly just being with them. The past decades have been lonely. Me stayed for a while, and Clara picked up her own companions, but everyone leaves in the end. Finally, she understood why the Doctor was so desperate to keep her. Clara’s friends always moved on or died and it always hurt. But the persistent, haunting isolation that comes with being immortal—the pain of parting was worth easing that edge. Selfish, perhaps, but the alternative is unbearable.

Clara swirls around in the water. It feels good against her skin, so she ducks her head under, feels it drip down her face as she rises back up. Blinking the water out of her eyes, it takes a second for her to realize that she’s no longer alone.

Standing at the edge of the pool, the Doctor watches her. Dressed in a dark shirt and trousers, she doesn’t seem inclined to swim. Probably not here independently, then. _Looking for her?_

“Hey,” Clara greets her, moving closer to the edge. “How long have you been there?”

“Just arrived,” the Doctor says, “haven’t been staring, I promise,”

“Wouldn’t mind if you were,” Clara smirks, and the Doctor looks strangely... guilty, at the words. Afraid of overstepping? She definitely shouldn’t be. Her hesitation is concerning, but Clara lets it slide.

“Couldn’t sleep?” the Doctor asks, then sits with her legs crossed, settling so she’s more level with Clara.

Her face is soft in the blue lighting, but her eyes are somber. They watch Clara pensively as she steps closer to the poolside. Studying her expression; the set curve of her jaw, her mouth slightly crooked into a smile, the gentle furrow of her eyebrows—she really is so beautiful. And tired—she looks tired.

They used to share a bedroom. Since her return, the TARDIS offered her the original one and she gladly accepted it. But shifting alone under the covers, comfortable as they were, didn’t satisfy the desire to be close to another. To the Doctor. Their last body, with the lined face and wild eyebrows—he feigned reluctance to touch for a while before finally relinquishing to Clara’s love of it. And after Christmas and the dream crabs, he gave up the pretense entirely. Touching the Doctor had been a privilege only granted to Clara; but now, this body seems even less inclined to offer it than their predecessor. Two weeks and she remains almost frustratingly chaste, unwilling to give in for more than a few seconds of an embrace or danger-fueled handholding.

In a way it hurts. But Clara hasn’t pushed the subject because there’s an enormous gulf of time between them and if the Doctor doesn’t want to broach their past intimacy yet, that’s okay. She’s not going anywhere. But still—

“Is something wrong?” Clara says, because now the Doctor is looking at her even more worryingly. The grief in her gaze surprises her. She should be happy. Clara is alive, not dead, no longer a ghost. The Doctor shouldn’t be looking at her like she’s about to disappear.

“No,” the Doctor says, and Clara knows it’s a lie.

_Why, why are you lying,_ she wants to ask. There’s no need for it. Instead, she tilts her head, and says, “Swim with me.”

The Doctor laughs softly, shaking her head, “I’m not dressed for it,”

It’s a feeble excuse, because Clara’s seen her wade into freezing waters in over four layers of formal clothing for _fun._ Admittedly that ended poorly, but that was less about the clothes and more because of the massive electric eels swarming the lake.

“Neither am I,” Clara counters, “and it’s really nice and warm. C’mon, Doctor. Indulge me,”

Sighing, she smiles. “Oh, alright. For you,” and she swings her legs into the water, soaking the ends of her trousers. “Hopefully she hasn’t put any eels in. That was a nasty shock for Amy. Literally,” then she slides off the edge, coming to stand by Clara.

The height difference is less severe this time. Clara doesn’t have to crane so much to look at the Doctor, an aspect of their relationship that she doesn’t miss. Somehow, she feels both more and less accessible. They’re closer in size, but there’s still a thin, frustrating layer of distance between them that she doesn’t understand.

Slowly, Clara steps back into the deeper end, indicating for the Doctor to follow. Once the water reaches her ribs, she stops. The Doctor, closer than before, leans back and wets her hair.

“This _is_ nice,” she admits. Her mood seems to have brightened, and she grins at Clara. “Have I told you about when I was drowned for being a witch?”

“Ooh, no. In this body? Was it the sonic or the clothes that condemned you?” Clara teases, delighted when the Doctor scrunches her face.

“My clothes are perfectly normal, thank you. And no, they just don’t like it when a woman knows what she’s doing and has a basic understanding of science.” She looks bitter when she says it, and Clara realizes something.

“Do you like being a woman?” she asks, noting the Doctor’s hesitation. “Or, being perceived as one, at least.”

“Sometimes. Mostly it just makes my job harder. I never had to defend myself so much as a man, which is strange because I don’t feel... internally different,” she says, frowning, “still me. Same old Doctor,” and she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than Clara.

Clara studies her face. Any cheer dissipated into uncertainty at the question, receding back into her mind. There’s something Clara needs to ask, but she dreads saying the words aloud. Before the Raven, she had no doubt about her place. But there have been centuries—millennia, from then and now. And she hates to sound so insecure, but she needs to know.

“Do you want me here?” she asks, quietly but steady. It hurts to say, but she doesn’t take it back.

The Doctor stares at her, shocked into silence. As if she can’t even comprehend the question. Suddenly, she moves forward, into Clara’s space. Her hands find Clara’s wrists in the water and she pulls them between them. “Clara,” she says, “whatever I’ve done to make you ask that, I am _sorry._ I know I’m not—not him, the other Doctor. And I don’t always get it right. But I will always, _always_ want you with me. If you’ll stay,”

The last line makes Clara pause. _If she’ll stay?_ Of course she wants to stay. There’s no doubt on her end. “You think I’m going to leave,” she says, and the Doctor’s hesitation confirms it. “You think I care that you don’t look like him? You are him. You’re the Doctor. I didn’t fall in love with a face, I—” and she breaks off, because the Doctor’s hands tighten around her wrists and her eyes are brimming with emotion.

“You still do, then?” she asks, almost a whisper. “Still—”

“Love you?” Clara finishes, finally understanding. “Of course I do. I never stopped. Not ever, not for a single moment. Do you doubt me?”

“No,” the Doctor breathes, “I don’t.”

“What are you so afraid of, then?” Clara pulls one of her hands out of the Doctor’s, reaches up to touch her cheek. She tenses under the touch, then relaxes. “You keep looking at me like I’m going to fade away. I’m here. I’m alive. Feel my pulse, if you need to.”

The Doctor turns over Clara’s wrist, fingers wrapped around her pulse-point. “I know. I’m sorry. You came back and I thought, maybe, you’d moved on. Didn’t want me like that, anymore. I would understand. I’ve been giving you space,”

“Me space? You’ve been giving _me_ space?” Clara says in disbelief, “I’ve been waiting for _you_ , Doctor.”

“You have?” her eyes are wide, “Oh. I thought you didn’t want to talk about it,”

“You tense up every time I touch you,” Clara replies, “I didn’t want to push it.”

The Doctor cringes. “Sorry. Not used to touch this time around. Haven’t had a Clara to force any hugs on me,”

Clara cups the Doctor’s jaw, then lets her hand slide down to her neck. “It’s hardly forcing if you want it...” she feels the Doctor shiver under her cold fingers. She closes her eyes to the touch, and Clara tilts her head. “Do you want it?”

Opening her eyes, the Doctor meets Clara’s gaze. Her hand releases Clara’s wrist, moving to her waist instead. The other hand comes up to her arm, resting against bare skin. Rivulets of water stream from her fingertips. “Yes,” she says lowly, “I do.”

With that, Clara leans in, carefully noting how the Doctor’s pupils expand and her breathing slows. Gently, she presses a kiss to her lips. They stand there for a few seconds, unmoving, quietly taking in each other’s presence. Then the Doctor’s arm circles around her back, bringing them closer together, and she deepens the kiss. Unhurried, she leans into Clara. It’s sweet, and slow, and she tastes the same as she did a thousand years ago.

After a minute or so they part, and the Doctor presses their foreheads together. Her eyes are closed, and Clara rests against her. “I missed this,” she whispers, and feels the Doctor nod.

“Me too,” and then she kisses Clara again, this time with more urgency. Her hand moves from Clara’s arm to her jaw, holding her steady as the kiss gains heat. The pace quickens at a dizzying rate, the Doctor biting Clara’s lip and licking into her mouth and she has to hold onto the Doctor to stay upright.

Their clothes stick together, now uncomfortable in the water. Without breaking away, Clara lowers her hands to the Doctor’s shirt, slipping her fingers under the cloth. The Doctor gasps as Clara’s fingers make contact, and she pauses. “Okay?” she asks, and the Doctor nods. The water makes it more difficult than it should be, but Clara manages to slide the t-shirt up, wrangling the Doctor out of it and then throwing it to the side where it makes a satisfying splash.

Clara runs her hands up the Doctor’s sides, awed by the smoothness of her skin. Her thumbs skim over every rib, up until they reach the fabric of her bra. She considers undoing it, but the Doctor looks somewhat nervous about it so she refrains. “Has there been anyone, in this body?” she asks out of curiosity rather than jealousy.

An uncomfortable look passes over her face. “Once. But that... turned out to be a mistake.”

“Oh? Why?”

She sighs. “Yeah. Oh. Exactly,” she doesn’t seem inclined to continue that thought, so Clara lets it go.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” she says instead, smoothing her hands over the Doctor’s sides in reassurance. “This can be it, tonight.”

“Tonight,” she repeats, “Okay. That’s fine. Can we still—?” Pausing, she struggles over her words. “I want to touch you.” Her hands settle at the edge of Clara’s thin night shirt.

“You’re welcome to,” Clara breathes, and the Doctor latches onto the invitation, peeling up her shirt with more skill than she anticipated. After a moment of fumbling, her shirt joins the Doctor’s somewhere off to the side.

Her fingers slide along Clara’s skin, and it feels a bit funny in the water but mostly she’s hit with an overwhelming sensation of _longing._ For when the Doctor would touch her like this with such ease and care. She does it now, and the gentle but firm exploration of her body almost makes her cry because the puzzle _fits._ It’s like they used to be.

Clara wraps her hands around the Doctor’s neck and pulls her into a kiss, fervent with all the years of _want._ Dull fingernails tighten on her waist as the Doctor kisses back, and she feels it—the separation, the reunion. Two beings driven apart, severed by time and stars, and maybe it’s too poetic but she was an English teacher, surely that’s a good enough excuse, the universe can stand for her to romanticize this. Reconciled. Not even time and space can stop them, and it’s on this thought that the Doctor does something practically sinful with her tongue and Clara’s feet slip, and they go crashing into the water.

A giddy sort of shock takes over as the water engulfs them both, and Clara’s thankful enough that they separated mouths before submerging because she doesn’t fancy biting off any organs. She tumbles under the Doctor for a moment, body over hers, before she scrabbles to her feet and pulls Clara up with her. They’re both laughing, and Clara knows she’s matching thesilly grin on the Doctor’s face.

The Doctor unclasps their hands to grab Clara’s face and pull her into a wet kiss, still dripping with water. When they part, the Doctor smiles. “My Clara,” she says, “oh, my Clara,” and then she kisses her again, and again, until they’re breathless for a different reason.

Finally, she pulls back, smiling with contentment. The tension and sadness melted away, leaving a radiance in her eyes that looks dazzling in the blue lighting. In them, Clara sees the person who excitedly rang her doorbell so many years ago, babbling her name; the person who she was willing to die for, jumping into their time-stream; who pressed a kiss to her hand and professed a _duty of care—_ dying and living in a terrible cycle to save her for four-and-a-half _billion_ years. The person she loved then and loves now.

Clara presses her hand to the Doctor’s cheek, remembering her plea from a past self, in a life that feels so very far away but also—closer than ever. It had been so hard for her then, to look into a new face and search for familiarity. She knows now what the Doctor wanted, what they need from her.

Holding her gaze, Clara leans forward, pressing closer, chest to chest. “I see you,” she whispers.

The Doctor’s eyes widen, her breath catching. A final barrier of insecurity washing away into the water. Acceptance, understanding. Validation of her current self, not any standard set by a predecessor. She pulls Clara into an embrace, arms wrapped around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, face buried in Clara’s neck.

They stay there for a while, closely entangled. Clara feels the Doctor’s hearts beating through her chest, echoing around her own. It’s a soothing, lovely rhythm, and Clara revels in the sound. They can talk more later. For now, she curls against the Doctor, grateful to be alive, and takes comfort in her presence. All of time and space, and there’s nowhere else she would rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> I love them so much.


End file.
